In one instance, he set up an embassy official in such a way that his government would have killed the diplomat had the foreign power learned of his dealings with an American undercover agent. Jake assumed the short, squat, swarthy individual was on the FBI’s payroll singing dutifully about Middle Eastern affairs, grateful to be alive. In the other assignment, one of the three targets would never sing again, and Jake could only assume the two remaining subjects were used in a never-disclosed spy swap.
Jake pushed himself this morning, aiming for a six-minute-mile pace. But throughout the run, a question kept nagging: Who is behind the Park kidnapping?
He intentionally arrived early for the meeting at the Koffee Kombine on Ventura Boulevard. The place was open — a counterintuitive location for clandestine encounters. The patio was nearly empty — yet perfect. The church crowd would be joining them soon, but the participants in this morning’s meeting had a clear view of others approaching. The ambient noise from the street traffic prevented surreptitious monitoring of their conversation.
When he could, Jake always chose locations like this for conferences with colleagues — and his criminal co-conspirators. He reconnoitered entries and exits in advance — and knew where to look and what to look for. It gave him a measure of certainty in situations that could quickly get out of control — far preferable to exchanging information in a “brush pass” at a supermarket vegetable stand. From experience he knew the more obvious he was, the less obvious he would appear.
He ordered coffee and was reading the Times sports section when Trey Bennett pulled up to the curb in his silver Ford Fusion. Jake watched over the top of the newspaper as Trey threw the FBI radio microphone over the rearview mirror and hopped out of the vehicle. The hanging mike was a common sign to meter maids and patrol cars to extend “professional courtesy” and not ticket an illegally parked government vehicle. Even on Sunday these meters needed feeding.
Trey walked into the patio but before he could sit, Jake looked up at his friend and said quietly, “Please don’t ever do that again when you are coming to a meeting with me.”
“Don’t do what?”
“Don’t hang your mike. Here’s a quarter. I know all agents are cheap but you just signaled everyone — the good, the bad, and the ugly — that you’re a cop. I’d like to maintain some semblance of secrecy. It might just keep me alive.” Jake flipped him the quarter and Trey sheepishly retreated to the car, pulled his mike, and pumped the quarter into the meter.
When Trey returned he apologized.
“Don’t be sorry, be cautious.”
“Yeah, like meeting you in broad daylight on the busiest surface street in the Valley is cautious.”
“Hey, if you want to do the paperwork to rent a motel room for every meet, that’s fine with me. I thought you’d appreciate I’m only sticking you with coffee, but we can do the Ritz any time.”
“A bit testy this morning, aren’t we?” said Trey, trying to lighten the moment.
“Screw you and the horse you rode in on,” said Jake without the hint of a smile.
The waitress approached and both men quieted. She topped off Jake’s cup and filled Bennett’s when he said he wasn’t ordering breakfast.
Trey took a long sip of the coffee, then said, “That plate you grabbed from the car as you arrived at Park’s house last night comes back to Sharaz Ali al-Sattar.”
“Am I supposed to know him?” asked Jake.
“Only if you follow Iranian TV. He runs Iranian International Television, which has production facilities in Hollywood. From everything I could find in our files, the entire operation is funded by Tehran.”
“No way.”
“Yeah,” said Bennett. “I haven’t had time to listen or watch the playback of all you recorded with Park last night, but has he given you any clue that he is engaged with any Iranians or Mideasterners?”
Jake thought for a moment and said, “Not a word. But if Park’s involved with the Iranian community here in L.A., that would be a stunner. It’s way out of our lane, but it looks to me like the Iranians dropped off the charts last year after they closed that interim nuclear weapons deal in Geneva.”
“You’re right about that,” said Trey. “Crime stats on Persian perps are way down from a year ago. Some ayatollah must have issued a fatwa to knock off the wife beatings LAPD would report and the clandestine caviar and illicit pistachio imports CBP used to catch.”
Jake was still thinking about the car leaving Park’s place as he and Tommy arrived. “What does Bill Holodnak say? Does he have any calls between Park and this Iranian we saw leaving his place last night?”
“Nothing.”
“Park must be communicating by means we aren’t monitoring,” Jake said. “That has me concerned. I don’t like going in blind and deaf. Can we get the judge who issued the wires warrant to broaden the fishing license?”
“I’ll try,” Trey said as he made a note in his iPhone.
“That could be important,” Jake said. “There is no doubt in my mind the dead guy at Park’s last night was Middle Eastern. He could have been Lebanese, Syrian, Iranian, Iraqi, whatever. But Park is convinced it has to be someone with connections to the Korean underworld. He has some ideas but wasn’t interested in sharing them with me last night. Have you seen any forensics to ID the dead guy?”
“That’s going to take days if we get it at all,” Trey replied. Then, consulting the notes he had made on his phone, he continued, “Here’s what the medical examiner’s office told me this morning: There was no ID on the corpse. Initial assessment, large trapezius muscles, indicative of carrying a military backpack and/or wearing an armored vest. Dental work appears to be Middle Eastern or south European — gold, not amalgam. Stomach contents, were—”
“Stop!” said Jake, holding up his hand. “I’m not interested in what he had for breakfast. Just let me know if we figure out who the guy was.”
“Got it.” Trey continued, “Listen, it will come as no shock to you but you didn’t make any new friends last night with the ASAC.”
Jake leaned back in his seat. “Yeah, like I’m inviting him over for Monday Night Football. Do they study to be that stupid or is it genetic? The guy’s an idiot.”
Trey took another sip of his coffee, then said cautiously, knowing the messenger might get caught in the cross fire, “He wants to send you back to Quantico for an emergency psych assessment.”
Jake laughed derisively. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Trey shook his head. “I’m serious. He told Rachel to set it up ASAP.”
Every six months undercover agents are subjected to a psychological assessment designed to determine if they are on the brink of a breakdown or total collapse. The stresses are real and the testing can sometimes identify symptoms of a “breakdown” before the agent and his handler appreciate its existence. Jake had sat through far too many semiannual evaluations and somehow managed to win almost every session on the couch. He’d win this one, too, but the timing couldn’t be worse.
Jake lowered his voice to what those who knew him best described as his “Dirty Harry” leveclass="underline" “This is nuts. I’m in the middle of what may be an international criminal conspiracy, a triple homicide, and a double kidnapping and he wants to yank me?”
Trey looked around the patio, motioned for him to lean across the table, and said, “Jake, I know he’s an idiot, but he’s an ASAC idiot. You can’t just jump in a guy’s face like you did last night and expect to walk away, especially in front of witnesses. He has to take a stand; otherwise he looks weak.”